The Other Side of You by Salley Vickers Read Free Book Online Page B

blurred around the edges. He was neat as a guardsman, always in a pressed shirt and jacket and tie, but in the way that a small child is turned out, when the impression matters more to the dresser than the dressed. It was his wife who kept him trim. Her hobby was making padded coat hangers, a distraction, I surmised, from the sight of her husband’s motionless misery. He had been an active man once, she told me with remembered pride, though overactive when the anxiety dominated. By the time it was my job to monitor her husband he sat with his mouth never properly closed. You couldn’t say he stared out of the window—his eyes were too horribly devoid of any directed interest.
    Mrs Beet had soft English skin and fine hair and delft-blue eyes and seemed always to be holding on to some part of her husband, his hand, his elbow, his knee, patting it to remind him—or perhaps herself—that she was there. Despair, and loyalty, had taught her to make the hangers, when she came with him to the hospital for his occupational therapy. I imagine he simply sat there and she, like a mother with an awkward child, covered the hangers for him. One Christmas, she gave me three as a present. ‘I don’t suppose you’ll have any use for them, DrMcBride, but maybe your wife would like them, that is if…’ I reassured her that I had a wife. She was a sensitive woman and would have hated to make a mistake about my marital status, or my sexuality. Olivia, unusually, welcomed the gift: the padded contours, it turned out, were useful for her evening clothes.
    I speculated sometimes about Mrs Beet and where she had ended up. It was unlikely that her husband lived long in that condition. ‘He was depressed before, yes, Doctor,’ she told me in her deferential yet subtly assertive tone, ‘and anxious. But anxiety and depression aren’t the worst things. They never told us how it would be afterwards. Nothing’s as bad as seeing him like this with all the light, and with all the sorrow too, gone from his eyes.’
    ‘I agreed to do the response,’ Gus said, ‘but I’ve got this prostate problem hanging over me and there seems to be a feeling I shouldn’t push my luck for the next month or two afterwards. All right if I get you to take my place?’
    Mrs Beet appeared unassuming but she had a certain tenacious force which had a way of ensuring that the apparition of her mutilated husband stayed somewhere in the back rooms of my mind. It made one of its haunting reappearances now.
    ‘Oh, God, Gus,’ I pleaded, trying to dodge the reproachful recollection, ‘I’d much rather not.’
    This was a major colloquium and I was reluctant to take on Jeffries, who regarded intellectual opposition as tantamount to declaration of war. He could block the career of those who were hostile to his views and although I wasn’t ambitious I was cautious. As I say, I liked a quiet life.
    ‘Why not?’ I was aware the tone was being made deliberatelypeevish. Gus had a whim of iron and didn’t scruple to bend you to it. ‘Time someone other than me made a noise.’
    ‘I haven’t your enthusiasm for mud-stirring, Gus.’
    ‘Don’t need to say anything startling. Just say how you might treat a serious-seeming case without zapping their brain cells to smithereens with drugs we don’t understand or bloody electrical impulses ditto. You must have someone you’re seeing who fills the bill.’
    When I next saw Elizabeth Cruikshank the year had crossed the shadow line when the clocks change and the late-afternoon light, an hour further from the sun, had begun to fail.
    ‘Spring forward, fall back’ was how my mother taught us to remember which way the clocks moved at the spring and autumnal equinoxes and, as with many of her proverbial sayings, the words stayed in my mind. They stayed my mind, too, those familiar phrases, providing some kind of outposts of reassurance. Perhaps it was her way of mothering me, or perhaps—more fairly—it was an element of